While Downstairs
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU based on 'The crimson petal and the white' on iplayer. Dean is an ageing hooker cliche in victorian era London. Castiel is the boy that does the laundry for the brothel. Started PWP but now it's kind of Tense Plot Without Porn.
1. Chapter 1

_Another day another iplayer inspired hooker fic. This was me thinking, oh ok, I'll write some porn, and then I liked the set up so much that I didn't want to cheapen it._

The sheets slop wetly as he throws another bundle of soiled linens into the tub. Castiel wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, rolling the cuffs on his dingy shirt well up past his elbows as he plunges his hands into the tub of grey water. He fists the soaked sheets and picks up the cake of yellow soap off the side of the tub. The scent of sweat and fornication rises up from the steaming water, usually he would wrinkle his nose at it, but on this day, these sheets...it is the scent of one particular man that rises to him.

He selects a stain on the sheet, wrinkled skins of expulsion that peel in the water, sending flakes over his skin. He scrubs the soap into the mark, arm rough as he jerks his hand, working the stain with more force than necessary until his back aches with the effort of it. His breath hisses through his nose in the close, steamy room, heart picking up its speed as he cleanses the sheets of a dozen men, and one in particular, readying them for another use.

This house is not perhaps like many other houses of its supposed kin. Other places such as this have women, have velvet layered with dust, cheap wine and creaking floors and beds. Castiel knows because he has served in them, decanted the wine, taken up the soiled sheets and guided gentlemen to and from the salon and chambers. Since he was very young and born to a mother who'd soaked herself in gin and other poisons, just to eject him from her womb as a dead thing, a bludgeoned snake. But she had died instead, and he had been born alive but cursed, his brain crisscrossed with bad wires that led where they oughtn't.

Unlike the men who came here, seeking the services of the boys and men of the house, whom Castiel had seen take their business elsewhere, to women, on occasion. Castiel had no choice in the matter. He had been attracted to men since some poison worked its way through the cord that anchored babe to mother, and now he wanted Dean above all else. A cheap male whore older than any of the others, and fast approaching that troublesome point where he would coarsen and no longer take men inside of him without the notion that he should fight. That he could fight.

Castiel scrubbed his sheets for a fraction of the money that any human needed to live.

Dean screwed his long limbs into a ball and huddled on the one small chair in the room. The bed, a straw filled mattress on the floor with a top sheet, was covered again in stains and spillings. The ache between his legs was still sharp enough to hurt as he shifted his posture and looked out of the window, through a gap in the rags and covering of newspaper that shut out the light and the prying eyes.

He rubbed a hand across the slight sanding of hair on his cheeks, present despite his rigorous work with the razor. He was twenty seven, and the boy thin hairs of his younger years were growing wiry and rough. He was as old as his first client, back when he was practically a child. He wondered if Sam were to rise out of his small plot behind 's, would he recognise him now? He was so far gone from the adolescent he had been, small and wide eyed as Sam himself.

Dean looks down at his broadened chest, covered in small bruises, a bite, threads of hair – with a kind of detached distain. He's not what his client's want. He's not even what he wants. He remembers a time when feeling the heavy bodies of his slightly more attractive clients pressing down on him made him feel desire. Now he has become like them (though some of his first must surely be dead by now) he wants smooth limbs to contrast his own, which are thicker now and rougher. He has become the elder to the many young slips that populate the lower floors of the brothel. He wants them just as much as men once wanted him. Though they still value his experience, he is an old hand after all, he knows that he and the gentlemen are much to similar to rub along as they once did, side by side.

Now they are in competition.

The cracked door swings open and the house boy comes in, heading straight for the bed, eyes down in thought. He's in a threadbare shirt, neck open and braces hanging loose at his sides as he lays capable hands on the stained sheet, tugging it loose with his back to Dean's seat.

He touches the sullied linen without disgust, and this is what catches Dean's attention, watching silently and unobserved from his seat, aching dully inside. That and the slimness of the boys hips, the fawnish arch of his back. He can't be more than sixteen.

Dean coughs.

The boy twists around, startled, eyes wide.

"Sorry, I thought you were done with the room."

Dean shifts and winces despite himself.

"I'm done. You can - " he waves at the bed. The boy gives him a long look, but turns back to his work, a flush creeping up his neck.

Oh good. He's not totally without his charms then. Dean contemplates the roundness of the kneeling boy's buttocks as he bends over the bed, reaching for the furthest corners.

"You work in the parlours much?" he asks, wondering if this is a duel purpose invention of John's, to get the young whores doing chamber work on the side.

"No sir." The boy says quietly.

"Just the bed linens then, laundry and service?" Dean taps a foot on the floor. "Can't pay much."

"No sir." He says again, freezing over the sheets like he knows what's coming, and Dean hopes the drudge doesn't bolt like a rabbit when he make his move.

"You ever think of turning over to this work?" he says, painfully standing from his seat and coming to stand just behind him.

Castiel fixes on the words 'turning over' and wonders if Dean is suggesting what it is he thinks he reads in his words.

"I doubt there would be any interested parties." He hedges.

"I can think of some." Dean touches the back of his neck and Castiel moves into the pressure willingly. "Could always start you myself." He says softly. "Someone familiar...someone who knows what they're doing."

"It would hurt." Castiel mutters, because he is, despite his desire, a virgin in the ways of this...act.

"I wouldn't let it, hardly at all." Dean whispers, kneeling behind him and running a hand up the curve of Castiel's spine. "I'd be so careful." He promises, and unlike his first client, he actually means it. The boy is quite pretty, quite nice to listen to as well, and Dean feels less and less like coaxing him into the business, and more like keeping him. As he keeps the small trinket box his mother once owned, containing Sam's first curl and his baby teeth. Something for him and him alone to hold on to.

Castiel twists, dropping from his crouch to sit on the half unclothed mattress, legs extending slowly on either side of Dean.

"Don't pay me." He says softly, and Dean blinks. "When it's over..." Castiel says, more clearly. "Please don't pay me."

Dean kneels between his spread legs, reaches a hand to touch the cheek of the strange, pale adolescent.

"If it pleases you." He says, and it seems right, because he boy goes soft and trusting underneath him, and Dean presses him to the rough mattress eagerly.


	2. Chapter 2

_You try to be mysterious, you try not to write sex into everything. Just when I think I'm out, you pull me back in..._

Castiel smells like the sheets Dean bites down on every day. Like the cubes of wash soap and the dingy water of the city. The hollows under his arms taste like fresh sweat when Dean nuzzles them. When he sucks one of the boy's fingers into his mouth it feels rough, dried from the soap and curling gently against his smooth tongue.

Castiel's eyes are dark, the sliver of lust he's felt digging at him since he turned twelve is working through his veins, sticking into his heart and flooding him with new poison. He feels heavy and warm with Dean pressing down on him, rubbing his hardness against his hip through the course material of his clothing. His shirt is gone, gently stripped from him by Dean's own hands, and the sharp edges of straw poke at him though the mattress ticking.

Dean's hands find the buttons on his slacks and flick them open, tugging the fabric down and letting Castiel nudge them off of his feet. Dean's own trousers follow, shucked off to the end of the mattress, and then they are truly naked, and Castiel can feel the prickling of hairs like straw between their bodies. He feels Dean's skin rise into his with each breath, sweat forming where they touch. His thighs on either side of Dean's body, his skin pressing into the insides of Castiel's thighs as he shifts a little, brushing the head of his cock against the smooth skin just shy of the boy's entrance.

Castiel rocks his hips slightly upwards, feeling the touch of their intimate parts and stuttering a breath, one hand touching his stomach lightly, the other trailing up Dean's side.

"How does it..." Dean bends down to touch their lips together, tongue skating between expertly as the words '_get inside' _are lost in the boys throat.

Dean's mouth is soft and hard at the same time, pressure as an absolute behind the lips kept soft with grease. He tastes like spit and flesh, but also wine and the salt of Castiel's own sweat. To Dean Castiel tastes clean, which is change enough to keep him interested as he sucks and bites at his lips, rubbing his cock head into the slip of silk flesh behind the boy's genitals. Castiel's hands flutter needily at Dean's chest, and it's a pleasant surprise when the cool fingers light on his nipples, first one, then the other, exploring the little protrusions with blind interest. Dean reciprocates, lowering his head to suck at first one mauve bud, then the other, until Castiel whines and his thin fingers twist in Dean's hair, hips rising to rut into Dean's stomach.

He thinks the boy is ready enough not to run when he begins to work on him, and certainly hot enough to take the slight pain of it in his stride. Dean sits up a little, kneeling between the boy's legs again and feeling the opium dark eyes of the launderer on him as he picks up the crock of grease from beside the mattress.

It's cheap stuff made with wax and oil, thick and white at first touch but turning liquid as it's used ardently, he knows from experience.

"Knees up." He directs, palming some of the stuff and lowering himself a little so that he can press it up and then into the boy. Castiel winces as the cold stuff touches his skin, expecting Dean to continue regardless, but the man notices and tisks at his own thoughtlessness, turning the cream in his hands to warm it through. He returns the oily mess to press between his buttocks, and Castiel tilts his head back, getting used to the sensation of oil between the parts of him, slippery and intimate.

"Better?" Dean asks softly. Castiel nods, whimpers as Dean's finger circles and presses, rubbing first gently, then harder, until the muscle that Castiel barely thought of, flinches open and he can feel uncomfortable pressure. The finger sliding in and every instinct in his body trying to force it out, to moving in the direction nature intended of the space Dean is intruding on. Castiel hisses a sharp breath and Dean rubs soft knuckles against the underside of his cock in apology.

"It's over fast." He promises, rubbing firmly at Castiel's cock as he readies him for another finger. He's only ever really opened himself, and that in a perfunctory kind of way, a process like when he washes spunk out of himself or readies salts for cleaning infections. It's a way to make his job easier. But this is...inside, Castiel feels smoother that out, untouched. Virgin, the word beats a tattoo through his blood and Dean feels a surge of excitement. He'll be this boy's first.

Castiel cries out at the second finger, trying to twist away from the discomfort and the burn. Dean eases him down, strokes him and promises that it will get better, that pain and pleasure go hand in hand with men, that Castiel has to be patient. The third finger make him moan softly with pain, still and limp on the mattress, eyes closed and sweat forming as he struggles not to drag away from the fingers in him.

Fortunately, just as the exercise begins to worry Dean in it's painful nature, he finds the thing that makes this way of coupling worth the pain. He stays just shy of the place, leaning up to press a kiss to Castiel's harshly breathing mouth.

"This..." he whispers into the shell of the boys ear, as he turns his head to the side in discomfort. "is why we do it." He nudges his fingers and Castiel arches up, strung tight and sobbing as pleasure overtakes pain and sears his nerves. Dean leaves it at one tap, withdrawing his fingers and leaving Castiel whimpering and desperate.

"Do that again." He whispers, stubborn cock still pressing into Dean's stomach as he levels himself over Castiel's body. "Please..."

He shushes him gently. Though he has no real reason to be gentle, it seems that it is his way this morning, with the boy who's been more courtly than his so called gentlemen.

"Just a little while, and you'll feel good, trust me." He rubs more grease over himself, lines himself up and arranges Castiel's legs a little wider. "But, this is going to be hard, painful..." he rubs his fingers against Castiel's jaw and, heedless of where they've been, Castiel catches one and sucks the oil from it, as Dean had sucked his finger only a while before. Dean nudges forward without thinking, pressing the head of his hardness against the slicked ring of fluttering muscle and drawing a taut gasp from the boy underneath him.

"I know. I know." He soothes, pushing a little further once Castiel has quietened. "It's over fast." His groan meets Castiel's cry of pain in the air, his body pressing down on the boy's as Castiel's frame goes tight in discomfort. "Just relax...it will go more easily."

Castiel fights to relax, feeling a stretching, burning sensation that heralds some monstrous pressure. He bites his lip and Dean groans as the walls around him flutter and pulse before relaxing again, allowing him to push. Castiel fists the ticking beneath him, moans against his clenched teeth as Dean slides fully into position. Another flare of pleasure courses through him and Castiel relaxes again, full and throbbing dully with pain, overlaid with more immediate pleasure.

Dean looks down on him, holding his position with no small amount of restraint.

"Did it hurt too much?" he asks, as Castiel shifts his hips a little, experimentally.

"It was worth it." Castiel's fingers anchor themselves in Dean's hair, his arm bent around the back of his neck, pulling Dean down and bringing their mouths together as Dean starts to move, pulling out slowly and pressing in again, meeting less resistance each time as Castiel waits for the strike of ecstasy, the weight of Dean inside of him feeling less like a torture and more like a pleasure, something he might crave. One of his hands slides down, squeezing as it holds Dean's thigh. The older man winces at the pain that flares in his abused flesh, still sore from his client's mistreatment, he sinks back into Castiel, banishing pain with pleasure and feeling the boy arch up to meet him.

They find a repetitive action between them, Dean pushing down as Castiel rises, rocking together on the exposed mattress until Castiel's moans of pleasure grow longer, more desperate, and he tries to move faster, to bring Dean back inside of him with a little more force each time. His eyes flutter shut as Dean complies, letting himself go and relishing the wet grasp of flesh around his cock for the first time in an age. When Castiel splits apart, spurting against Dean's stomach and twitching once, hard as his muscles rake the length of Dean, still moving inside of him, Dean moans and pulls the limp body of the boy upwards, against his chest, finishing with a few violent thrusts at this new angle, feeling Castiel clench with each press at his sensitized internal nerve. Letting him suck and lick the pulse point on his neck kittenishly as he comes down, feeling Dean spend inside of him.

Once lowered back to the mattress, Castiel winces as Dean pulls out of him, inching slower than his sensitive dick can stand, to try and avoid unnecessary hurt. Lying side by side, touching each other for comfort in the wake of completion, Dean feels like he could sleep here for a while, and perhaps wake to find Castiel still on his bed.

If this were his bed, and not a mattress in a slum he occupies for trade.

"Where do you live?" he asks of the boy, as Castiel rolls closer, pressing into him and savouring the warmth of his skin.

"In this house." Castiel murmurs. "My mother is dead, and John took me in at my birth."

"He farmed you?"

Castiel nods.

Dean processes this.

"Do you know the street behind St. Michaels?"

Castiel nods again.

"I have a room there. Above a milliners." Dean says.

Castiel seems to grasp where this is leading, or perhaps he just wishes the same thing.

"I could visit there, maybe?" he asks softly, feeling Dean's hand rub his back comfortingly.

"Better there than here." Dean mutters, hoping that he will get to see more of this boy outside of this hole, that perhaps he will get one more go with him before John decides to set him on as one of the parlour boys.

Such a shame to see something so good torn down and trampled to pieces by the swine that occupy this place. He touches the boy's skin, looking into his eyes for the first time and feels all his stubbornness lock into place around this motherless thing, too fragile, too perfect to be purely course in his breeding.

Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he might be able to keep a hold of him.


End file.
